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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28847256">the heaven of a human spirit ringing</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightsonatas/pseuds/starlightsonatas'>starlightsonatas</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Arkham Asylum, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, POV Female Character, but bittersweet because her father figure is an actual supervillain</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 03:55:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,320</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28847256</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightsonatas/pseuds/starlightsonatas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonathan Crane receives a visitor.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the heaven of a human spirit ringing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Molly Randall appeared in a single Batman comic from 1994 and yet is one of the most crucial characters in Jonathan Crane's lore, and it's a damn shame that she's not more well known. I love her very much. </p>
<p>Title from Nina Cried Power by Hozier.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Arkham is freezing.</p>
<p>Molly Randall pulls her dark blue blazer tighter around herself as she is walked through the dim hallways by a bulky guard with one of the gruffest voices she’s ever heard. The click of her heels echoes loudly, each step a signal of her presence. She can hear the snarls and jeers of the patients when she passes by them, but by now Molly has learned to hold her head high in even the most dire of circumstances. She can’t let herself be bothered by them, not when she must focus on this moment she’s been waiting for, working for.</p>
<p>When she’d first arrived at the front entrance of the imposing asylum, told the haggard receptionist, “I’m here to visit Jonathan Crane,” she’d actually been laughed at by the security flanking every door. She’d stood firm, arms crossed, posture ramrod straight, until they realized she was dead serious.</p>
<p>“I visited the GCPD,” she said, pulling the papers from her purse, “and I’ve got all the necessary paperwork.” It’d taken an awfully long time to get, too. No one had understood her desire to visit the madman known for reveling in fear, and Molly’s sure both her youth and gender made the process more tedious than it should have been. Yet here she is, holding out the proof of her permission, eyebrow raised expectantly.</p>
<p>In the end, they acquiesce, unable to argue with her thorough documentation—or her determined stare.</p>
<p>“Here,” says the guard, pushing through one of the countless, nearly identical metal doors. “Five minutes.” Molly steps around his form carefully, into the room, just as poorly lit as the hall. She waits for the door to close, then sits in the too-short plastic chair, trying to adjust her long legs awkwardly and wishing she had opted for pants rather than a skirt.</p>
<p><em>Stop stalling</em>, she tells herself sternly, and plants her feet on the ground, preventing any more fidgeting. She takes a deep breath, and looks up.</p>
<p>Only a few feet in front of her, kept separate by the thick pane of plexiglass, sits a figure. Hunched over, dressed in an unflattering orange jumpsuit, he looks nothing like the distinguished professor who she’d taken such joy in learning from. But it is the same man, without a doubt. Jonathan Crane faces away from her, unmoving.</p>
<p>“Professor De—Professor Crane,” Molly corrects herself, nearly addressing him by the alias he’d used while teaching at her university. She’s practiced this so many times, but the reality brings on an anxiousness she was not prepared for.</p>
<p>He stiffens in his seat, and Molly knows that he has recognized her voice. She suppresses a sigh of relief; she’d been worried that he may not remember her and she would have come all this way only to be humiliated. Still, he does not turn around. He does not speak. It’s all up to her, then.</p>
<p>“It’s been a while, Professor Crane,” Molly continues softly. “It seems like you remember me, from your body language—I loved our discussion on that, back then—but I’d like to reintroduce myself, if that’s alright with you.”</p>
<p>She pauses, giving him a chance to respond. He doesn’t, so she presses on. </p>
<p>“My name is Molly Randall,” she says. “I’m twenty-six years old. I graduated from Ellis-Greene University with a PhD in child psychology. In my first year of graduate school, I was taught by a man named Professor Irving Diedrich. He was the most engaging, brilliant teacher I’ve ever met.” She wets her lips, because the next part always makes her mouth go dry. “He helped me during a very difficult time. Or rather, you did.” She doesn’t go into more detail. She doesn’t need to.</p>
<p>“It took me quite a while to work out whether or not I should come see you,” she admits. “Mostly, it was due to my family’s wishes. They are still horrified that their daughter was ever near the Scarecrow. I love them deeply, and I didn’t want to upset them. But I needed this. I needed closure.”</p>
<p>It is so easy to fall back into old habits, to open up and speak of her deepest emotions to Professor Crane. Even <em>after</em>, when she’d begun proper therapy, she’d never felt a connection with one the way she did with him. He was <em>safe</em>.</p>
<p>“They say I should be terrified. I should be scared beyond belief.” Molly takes a breath. “That is what they say.</p>
<p>“But Professor…” Here is where Molly’s voice finally wavers. Her hands curl into her skirt, wrinkling the linen. “I’m not scared. I’m not scared at all. I’m grateful. And I know that you’ve done very bad things, and continue to do bad things, and it doesn’t change anything for me. It should, but it doesn’t. You were a wonderful teacher and friend. You were there for me, and you protected me when I needed you. When there were no heroes around to save the day.”</p>
<p>She swallows. “You gave up a good life to avenge me. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure I deserved it at first, because you were so <em>brilliant</em> and it wasn’t <em>fair</em>. It wasn’t fair that you were punished for giving him what he deserved, because he did deserve it. Every bit of it.” Mostly, Molly considers herself a pacifist. Bromley is the exception to that rule. What he did to her was cruel, and she doesn’t deny the fury, the pain, the need to see justice served. Professor Crane gave her that justice.</p>
<p>“I wish you hadn’t been caught,” she says, wondering if her next words will have her dragged out of Arkham by guards, or perhaps thrown in a cell of her own. “I wish you had been able to see it through.”</p>
<p>Even this admission, which she has never before spoken aloud, does not compel him to look at her. For a moment she doubts he’s even listening, and is immediately ashamed of herself. He has always, always listened to her.</p>
<p>The scrape of the metal door opening makes her flinch. “One minute left,” the gruff guard from before says.</p>
<p>“Please, could I stay a bit longer?” Molly asks. She’s not done. Not yet.</p>
<p>The guard frowns. “Rules are rules.”</p>
<p>She chews her lip. “Alright.”</p>
<p>The guard leaves, letting the door slam. Every movement, every action in this place is brutal.</p>
<p>There is so much more to say, but she mustn't waste the little time she has. </p>
<p>“I know I may never see you again,” she says, “and these are unpleasant circumstances. But that’s alright. Because <em>I’m</em> alright now. And that’s enough for me, if it’s enough for you.”</p>
<p>Again, silence is the only acknowledgement she receives.</p>
<p>“I just hope,” Molly finishes, “that I was even half as good a student as you were a teacher.” </p>
<p>Molly squeezes her eyes closed, only for the briefest of moments, as she tries to accept that he’s simply not going to speak to her. It should be enough that she’s even made it here at all, that she has been given the opportunity to see him, but she can’t help feeling… cheated, somehow. </p>
<p>She stands, barely noticing the tremor in her legs as she does so. “Goodbye, Professor,” Molly manages to say, trying to keep the disappointment from her tone. “It was good to—”</p>
<p>“Miss Molly Randall,” Professor Crane rasps.</p>
<p>She inhales sharply. “Yes?”</p>
<p>Finally, he turns his head, just enough for her to see the shadowy outline of his face—prominent nose, gaunt cheekbones, and one visible eye, brown and bright and burning. It is enough to bring tears to her eyes. Her teacher. A man that, despite everything, she still considers a father. </p>
<p>“You are the best student,” he says, the honesty in his voice so raw and precious it makes her breath hitch, ‘I’ve ever had.”</p>
<p>The tears spill over her lashes. “Thank you, Professor Crane,” Molly Randall whispers. “Thank you.”</p>
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